The rain didn't slow the work.
It never did.
The distribution center continued to grind forward beneath the storm, indifferent to the weather battering its roof. Conveyor belts rattled overhead, carrying boxes at a pace calibrated down to the second. Forklifts beeped and reversed in tight arcs. Workers moved in soaked jackets, sleeves darkened by rain and sweat, hands repeating the same motions without pause.
Outside, water pooled and spilled over drains. Inside, nothing paused long enough to notice.
Doyun stood near the edge of the sorting floor, rainwater dripping from his coat and spreading into a thin stain on the concrete. The air smelled of oil, damp cardboard, and metal warmed by friction. The floor reflected light in broken patches, slick enough to demand constant attention.
The pressure was immediate.
Not diffuse. Concentrated.
It clung to a single section of the belt where packages arrived faster than they cleared. Scanners beeped in rapid succession. Hands moved quicker there, fingers cutting corners they didn't have time to think about. A supervisor shouted numbers that vanished into the roar before they could settle on anyone.
Efficiency held.
Barely.
A worker slipped, boots skidding half an inch before catching on the edge of a mat. No one reacted. Another worker filled the gap without breaking rhythm. Boxes stacked higher than intended, leaning just enough to look unstable, then were pulled down at the last moment.
No alarms.
No stoppage.
Doyun felt the familiar tightening.
This time, the alignment was clear.
One mistimed step. One delayed scan. One belt jam.
It wouldn't cause an accident.
It would cause exhaustion.
He moved closer to the belt.
The pressure sharpened, demanding attention. He saw the timing window open and close, open and close again. If nothing changed, strain would accumulate until mistakes became inevitable. If someone intervened blindly, the rhythm would fracture.
For the first time since entering the building, Doyun acted.
He stepped forward and spoke, just loud enough to cut through the noise.
"Wait."
A hand hesitated mid-motion. A scanner hovered over a label instead of beeping immediately. The belt ran for half a second longer than it should have.
The supervisor looked up, irritation flashing across their face.
"What?"
Doyun didn't explain. He pointed at the belt.
"Not now."
It wasn't authority. It wasn't instruction.
It was timing.
The supervisor cursed under their breath, then lifted a hand. The belt speed dropped. The surge loosened. Boxes stabilized, stacks straightening as if relieved.
The pressure thinned.
Not gone. Redirected.
Work resumed.
Faster than before.
Doyun stepped back, pulse still loud in his ears.
It worked.
Too cleanly.
Ten minutes later, he saw the cost.
A worker leaned against a column, chest rising too fast, eyes unfocused. Another rotated in late, thrown into a rhythm that no longer matched their pace. The supervisor's voice sharpened, compensating for the lost seconds with urgency that bordered on anger.
The system demanded repayment.
In strain. In fatigue.
The belt kept moving. The count kept rising. Rain hammered harder against the roof, thunder rolling somewhere above the metal, ignored by everyone inside.
No incidents were logged.
No reports filed.
Doyun felt the weight settle in his chest—not as shock, but as recognition.
He had changed the flow.
And the system had accepted the change by pushing harder elsewhere.
Workers adjusted without complaint. Someone wiped water from their face and kept scanning. Someone else flexed their fingers, shaking out the ache before reaching for the next box.
Nothing dramatic happened.
That was worse.
Doyun turned away before the pattern could lock into place any further. As he moved toward the exit, the pressure followed, heavy and insistent, as if reminding him that intervention didn't erase cost.
Outside, the rain soaked him through in seconds.
For the first time since he had begun noticing these structures, he wished he hadn't stepped in.
Not because it failed.
Because it succeeded.